


Woodstock Omens

by tealeafthief, Usedtobehmc



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1960s, 1960s Music, Angst, Cover Art, Digital Art, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hippies, M/M, Nudity, Pining, Polyamory, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Smut, Trauma, Vietnam War, Woodstock, dumb gays
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:01:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23777269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tealeafthief/pseuds/tealeafthief, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Usedtobehmc/pseuds/Usedtobehmc
Summary: Woodstock: 3 Days Of Peace And Music. A music festival that changed the world of rock and roll forever.An angel and a demon find each other at a festival that neither one of them really know how to fit into. But it's been a hell of a century so far, and maybe three days of peace and music is what they've needed for a long time. What on earth is so bad about 'Free Love' anyways?A collaboration with the incredible usedtobehmc, which started as a joke about the year 4004 BC being the original summer of love. Enjoy! x
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 42





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> Okay! So this is a long time coming. And with the extra time afforded by quarantine, I should be able to get it done!! There’ll be three main chapters and an epilogue!
> 
> This chapter has some very mild drug use (marajuana), and there will be use of hallucinogenics and reference to some harder drugs that are not used, but I understand if anyone has issue with this, and in the future I will mark these occasions and their placement in the story! If you have any specific questions regarding this, let me know!
> 
> All artwork embedded is done by usedtobehmc.
> 
> Songs referenced in chapter one:
> 
> Freedom/Motherless Child - Richie Havens  
> Motherless Child - Sweetwater  
> What's Wrong - Sweetwater  
> If I Were A Carpenter - Tim Hardin  
> Joe Hill - Joan Baez
> 
> Stay safe and wash your hands x

Friday 15th of August, 1969.

The first act wasn’t due to start for another few hours, and yet already the land was drowned with bodies. One could hardly move without brushing flesh against flesh, hempen cloth against cotton against denim against leather. The air was thick with the pungent aroma of _humans_ , sweat and cigarette smoke making the wide open field stuffy and claustrophobic.

_Good Lord,_ Aziraphale thought to himself, _this is_ before _the music._

_The stage isn’t even finished._

Heaven had had a nice eight month window or so to prepare for the Woodstock Festival, and even in that time, Aziraphale hadn’t quite figured out why he had been sent.

“It’s going to be a _cesspool_ of sin,” Gabriel had explained with a cringe of disgust. “Substance abuse, blasphemy, _fornication_ . It’ll be a nightmare, Aziraphale. A gathering of wayward souls who need to be shown the path to righteousness, _actual_ righteousness, not whatever _that_ is.”

The _that_ he had referred to had been the most recent outbreak of protests in the States. Heaven did not have an...official stance on the war in Vietnam. If anyone were to ask Aziraphale, he would say that he was fairly certain Heaven didn’t actually have a clue what to make of the whole awful business. Not that anyone ever _did_ ask him.

Vietnam was a long way away from here, but it still penetrated the crowd in sharp and sorrowful whispers.

Aziraphale made his way through to the campsite, which was already overflowing with drooping tents and haphazardly parked cars, doing his best to avoid getting mud on his tan leather shoes. It was a losing battle. He hadn’t been around crowds like this since perhaps the New Testament. He had seen a lot of history, but had never been one for crowds. There was a little more breathing space at the campsite than around the stage, but that came with its own set of problems. 

“Hey!” A voice cried out, and Aziraphale turned sharply round. A young man, early thirties perhaps, with a thick head of long hair and an even thicker moustache, was approaching him. 

“Oh, hello! How can I help?” Aziraphale shot back nervously, squelching miserably in the mud.

“What’s your deal, buddy, you a narc or somethin’?” He asked, lowering his voice when his face was inches away from Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale backed away a little, and the man followed. 

“I-I’m afraid I don’t quite understand your meaning, I’m here for the festival? I take it that it's starting later today, only I didn’t want to be too late.” He stammered, trying to put some space between the two of them.

“Well you’re _dressed_ like a fuckin narc, but not like any narc I’ve ever come across though. And what’s with the accent? They’re bringing in the _Brits_ for crowd control now?” Aziraphale decided it would only complicate matters to explain that _technically_ he wasn’t British. He wasn’t altogether sure that he wasn’t a ‘narc’ either. He was technically an enforcer of the Law, just not the law of the USA.

“I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding, dear fellow.” He said calmly as he continued to back away. “I’m just here for the festival, I promise I don’t intend to- oof!”

Anything he may have intended or not intended to do was lost, as he tripped backwards in his clumsy attempt to get away from the stranger, his feet catching on some foreign object. He lost his balance, falling with a thud into the cold, squelching mud, the wind knocked out of him. He was so disoriented, he almost didn’t hear the voice that followed it.

“Oi, watch where you’re _bloody_ going, you… Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale managed to raise himself to his elbows, cringing at the way his coat stuck to him and how his elbows sunk into the unsteady ground. He saw now that what he had tripped over were two long, thin legs, which protruded from red and black floral, hempen trousers, flowing into a sinfully baggy black shirt. Inside the shirt was Crowley. Crowley who had a green bandana holding back his long red hair, much longer than he had had when they had last seen each other. Crowley who had switched out his smaller sunglasses for obnoxiously big, rose-tinted ones. Crowley who was leaning against a tree at the edge of the campsite, who had been apparently _asleep._ Crowley who was, despite everything, undoubtedly Crowley.

“What, you know this guy, AJ? He’s cool?” The man asked, turning towards the demon next to him. Crowley didn’t answer immediately, just kept looking at the Angel in the mud.

The last time they had seen eachother was in Crowley’s Bentley in 1967. The holy water and the longing glances and their hands just brushing against each other on the cool surface of the thermos, and _you go too fast for me, Crowley_. Crowley had changed. He always changed, was always moving with the times, drifting in and out as cultures formed and evolved and died. 

Aziraphale knew he looked exactly the same. 

Crowley stood slowly, his bare feet gripping skillfully on the uneven terrain, and reached out a hand to the fallen Angel. 

“Yeah.” Crowley said quietly. “He’s cool.”

Aziraphale took it. 

“Well, why’s he dressed like a fuckin’ granddad in his sunday best then?” The stranger barked.

“Preaching to the choir, mate.” Crowley mumbled under his breath. He sighed. “He’s a friend, Johnny. He’s fine. Leave him be.” The demon confirmed, taking his hand away from Aziraphale. ‘Johnny’ seemed to accept this answer and walked away, giving Aziraphale the evil eye as he did, but the Angel hardly cared.

Crowley had called him his _friend._

Were things alright now? They had left it on such a bittersweet note, and the last two years had left Aziraphale feeling uncertain and cold in the absence of the demon.

Frankly, he wasn’t sure if he’d see Crowley alive again after that.

“Crowley,” he breathed out, once the man had walked away, “it really is so _good_ to see a familiar face here, I must admit I’m rather _lost_ -”

“Yeah, it looks like it. What are you _doing_ here, angel?”

Aziraphale was somewhat taken aback by the cold tone to Crowley’s voice. It didn’t suit him; Crowley was such a warm person. There was heat in his laughter and sly smile, in his passion for mischief and mayhem, and in his kindness (not that he’d ever stand for Aziraphale saying such a thing). Even when he was angry with Aziraphale, it was a hot, _explosive_ anger. This Crowley looked like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over him. Even behind his shades, Aziraphale could see his eyes were dim.

What had _happened_ to him?

“Well, official business,” he replied, curtly, “if you must know. Heaven is rather in a tizzy about this whole affair. ‘A convention of fornication’, I believe is what Michael said.” Crowley smiled at that, and Aziraphale felt his heart soar.

“Oh yeah? Not big into the whole ‘Three Days of Peace and Music’ thing, are they?” He replied sarcastically, circling around the angel, his feet miraculously staying relatively dry and clean. 

“And you are?” Aziraphale countered. “I suppose this is all _your_ demonic work. The drugs and adultery, wracking up some points with head office?” Aziraphale saw Crowley’s face twitch, then turn away from the angel’s.

“You know, not _everything_ that happens is because of me. Not my fault if the humans are looking to experiment. Besides,” He stopped behind Aziraphale’s back, picking at some of the quickly drying mud on his coat. “They’re not _actually_ doing anything wrong.”

“The local law would beg to differ.”  
  


“The local law has never exactly been a fine and upstanding example of _morals,_ angel, no matter where you are. You and I both know that.” He sighed, small and almost imperceptible. “Did you have to come looking so _bloody_ conspicuous?” The angel huffed, tugging at his waistcoat.

“Well, this is what I always wear!”

“Exactly, I don’t think you’ve blended in with that get up since 1883.” The demon stood for a moment, looking over his adversary. Aziraphale felt his face flush red. He was used to Heaven criticising his wardrobe, and was certainly used to being stared at. Crowley must have noticed, because he rested a hand on Aziraphale’s arm, stammering over his words. “Not that it matters much, eh? Two immortals, don’t think we’re really ever going to fit in.”

He snapped his fingers, and Aziraphale felt the mud that had plastered the back of his jacket and trousers vanish into nothingness. He looked back at Crowley, his eyes wide with gratitude, and saw that Crowley was smirking back at him.

_There_ was his demon.

“Come on,” Crowley prompted, walking past him without waiting for a thank you that they both knew couldn’t happen, “I can get you something a bit more appropriate for the occasion; I know some folks who are staying down this way.” 

“Crowley, wait.” Aziraphale called out.

Crowley stopped, but didn’t turn around.

“Are we alright? You and I, I mean.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Crowley answered, his tone imperceptible.

“I...the last time we saw each other…”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Crowley-”

“No, really, don’t mention it. Last thing either of us need is someone snitching back to the bosses, eh?” Aziraphale nodded, even though Crowley couldn’t see him.

“So, we’re fine then?” He asked again. Crowley groaned.

“Yes, of course we’re fine, you silly angel. Still by far my most cunning adversary, thwarting my wiles at every turn. Now, are you coming?” He said in feigned impatience, holding his hand out behind him. 

Aziraphale felt his heart drum maddeningly inside his chest. 

He took it.

* * *

Crowley led him towards a bright yellow school bus, nodding politely and greeting a few of the folks that were lounging outside of it. There were children running around in various states of undress, screaming and playing, and he swore he saw Crowley reach out to pat one of them on the head with the hand that was free. Only one, because Crowley had _still not let go of his hand_.

Frankly, it was a little maddening.

Inside the bus, he was hit with a wall of heat and a cacophony of scent. Herbs and wildflowers hung from the ceiling in bunches, but didn’t completely overpower the rank smell of bodies in mid-august heat. There were more people inside lounging, and Aziraphale saw that the bus had been converted into a home. Against the wall to his left was a long, patchwork sofa, and to the right were camp cookers and boxes of dry foods and utensils. At the back was a silk curtain, which Aziraphale could infer led to a bedroom.

The smell and the heat weren’t what initially overpowered him, although the humidity was now beginning to make him sweat madly beneath his thick cotton clothes.

The place was filled to the brim with Love. 

On the sofa, nursing a younger child against her breast, was a young woman dressed in the same patchwork florals that he had seen most people around the site wearing. Her long, blonde hair had the consistency of straw, and was full of flowers. She was unashamed of the situation they had found her in, and smiled, reaching a hand out towards Crowley as he walked through.

“AJ, sweetie! Are you feeling any better?” She called out, her voice gentle and quiet. She turned to Aziraphale, her smile not faltering. “Who’s this? I didn’t think you’d know anyone else who was coming.”

“I didn’t think so either, weird coincidence. Aziraphale, this is Buttercup. Buttercup, Aziraphale.” He said, finally letting go of the Angel’s hand as he made his way towards the room in the back. Aziraphale tried not to shiver at the loss of contact.

“Aziraphale.” Buttercup said slowly, trying out each syllable. “I’ve never heard that name before. I love hearing new names. And such a _lovely_ name.”

“Buttercup is an even lovelier name.” Aziraphale said, beaming. The young woman smiled.

“Thank you, I chose it myself. It used to be Jane, but there are so many other Janes. There’s a lot less Buttercups, don’t you think?”

“I do believe you’re the first Buttercup I’ve met.” Aziraphale replied, realising after he said it that it was true. Buttercup smiled broadly.

“Mr Aziraphale, I do believe you’ve just made me the happiest woman alive.” She looked down to the baby at her breast. “This here is Indigo, and then you probably saw Phoenix, Aphrodite and Sage messing around out front. They’re all mine.”

“Yes! Such lovely children, so… energetic.” He replied, cursing himself just slightly. Crowley had always been better with children. Buttercup just laughed.

“They’re a rowdy bunch, I know. Children have so much energy, and I don’t want them to have to bottle it all up, y’know? All my children will grow up being able to express what they’re feeling, to let out whatever’s inside them safely, to be curious and adventurous. I hate parents that make their children afraid of them. No child should ever have to be afraid to ask their mother a question, should they?”

Aziraphale stilled, his pulse rushing. 

_Perhaps I’m not the best person to ask_.

Luckily, Crowley made his reappearance, his arms full of clothes. Rescuing him for the second time in an hour.

Aziraphale was quickly guided through to the bedroom, the curtains shut securely behind him. He slowly removed his clothing, snapping them back safely into his wardrobe in London where they couldn’t be stained or torn, and began to unfold the clothing that Crowley had picked out. He thought at first Crowley may have miracled it into existence, but they looked and felt handmade. The both of them always preferred wearing things made by humans, it made all the difference.

First were the trousers. Flared, tan, and thankfully soft. The material was light and airy against the oppressive heat, and he sighed softly in relief. 

Next was the shirt, a white tunic-esque thing. He slipped it on, appreciating the looseness of the garment, and not sure how to feel about the patch of his broad, strong chest that was visible through the drooping neckline. 

Then, the jacket. He _did_ like the jacket. An off-white Nehru jacket that came to his mid thigh. It fit like a glove. 

There was no mirror in the tiny bedroom (if it could be called that, it was more a nest of pillows), but he felt far more comfortable than he imagined he would. Crowley had certainly thought it through. 

He stepped out, and saw Crowley sat on the floor with one of the young children; a girl of about eight with long hair coming down to her waist, who was skillfully threading flowers together whilst Crowley helped, passing her more when required. Crowley looked up and froze, his mouth opening and then shutting again. Aziraphale could see his face blush red beneath his shades.

_Maybe I’m wearing it wrong, and he’s embarrassed._

“Oh, _Aziraphale!”_ Buttercup cooed, “You look wonderful! AJ, you chose perfectly.”

“Ngk,” Crowley added, thoughtfully. “Yeah. Good. All good, but it’s missing a few touches, yeah?” He said, turning helplessly towards Buttercup. She smiled, handing Indigo, who was now peacefully dozing, to Crowley, and rose to a small chest on the other side of the bus, from which she plucked a string of blue, wooden beads, with one heavy, blue stone dangling in the centre which Aziraphale realised was a gemstone. She draped them around his neck, and he felt their weight, strong and solid, grounding him to the earth.

“Oh, my dear, really this is too kind! I couldn’t possibly accept-” Aziraphale stammered, only to be quickly shushed.

“”You can, and you will! They match those eyes of yours too beautifully for you to refuse.” She said, smiling, and then she turned to look at her daughter, who was now holding the ring of flowers. “Aphrodite, sweetheart, did you have something you wanted to give to our guest?”

Aphrodite nodded and bounded forward, holding up the ring of flowers she’d strung together. They were still fresh and bright, a pleasant mix of oxeye daisies and thistle flowers. Aziraphale knelt down to get closer to her, and she adjusted the makeshift crown over his head.

“AJ said you would suit flowers.” She explained, her young face serious and concentrated as she straightened it perfectly so that it wasn’t likely to fall. Aziraphale’s face flushed bright red, and he heard Crowley begin to sputter in protest.

“Alright! Buttercup, thank you for everything, I’ll be seeing you later, but I _think_ I can hear Richie warming up, so I’ll be off. Ciao!” Crowley called out, handing Indigo back to Buttercup and slithering his way out of the bus. Aziraphale could, to the demon’s credit, hear a guitar tuning up and a mic being tested through the amps that had been set up high around the festival grounds; he had already seen many trying to climb the scaffolding on his way in. 

“Wait!” Aziraphale called out, climbing awkwardly back to his feet to join him. Crowley had already begun strolling out of the bus and making a beeline towards the dense crowds that surrounded the stage, and he jogged to keep up, grateful for the slight breeze that greeted him outside the bus. He faltered only slightly as Aziraphale caught up. 

“What? You’re fine on the bus, angel, Buttercup loves new people.” He mumbled, continuing to make his way through the slowly increasing crowds of people.

“Well, I’d like to join you!” He said brightly, hoping he didn’t sound desperate. Crowley wrinkled his nose a little.

“Not sure you’d like it, angel. It’s all very psychedelic." 

“Well, then perhaps I’d just like your company.”

Crowley stopped then, and properly looked up at him, and the look of _want_ in his eyes took Aziraphale’s breath away. As supernatural beings, they rarely wanted for anything, _least_ of all company and affection. 

But Crowley and Aziraphale had been pretending to be human for a long, long time.

The demon sighed, and jerked his head towards the crowds that were massing towards the stage.

“Come on then. Just stay close, okay?”

* * *

Richie Havens opened the Woodstock Festival at precisely 5:07 in the afternoon on a stage that was still being constructed, and the heat and tension erupted.

The air was filled with screams and hollers, clapping hands and stamping feet, all the underscore to the thunderous, earthy guitar and voice on stage. Havens sang rough and loud, but strong. Aziraphale felt every word in his belly, every thrum of the guitar pulsing in his chest and through his bones.

“He’s playing it wrong.” He said to himself, without meaning to. Somehow, over the cacophony, Crowley heard him.

“Eh?” Crowley shouted, over the thunderous applause. 

“The guitar,” Aziraphale explained. “It’s tuned wrong, and he’s holding chords with his thumb. It’s wrong.”

Crowley smiled sardonically, and looked around and the thousands and thousands of humans surrounding them. Aziraphale followed his gaze. Every single pair of eyes was trained onto as much of the unfinished stage as could be seen. Some were still attempting to climb the scaffolding, to get closer to the speakers which threw the sounds from the stage around the festival grounds. The look on their faces was one Aziraphale had often seen in devoted ones who were deep in prayer.

“Doesn’t sound wrong to me.” He said finally, looking back out to the stage. 

Havens performed for almost an hour, singing of kindness and love, of being lonely and put down, and of being united. He sang a few Beatles covers, which Aziraphale excitedly declared he recognised, and soon he announced his last number.

“A hundred million songs are gonna be sung tonight,” Havens spoke in a voice hoarse from singing, but full of weight. “All of them are gonna be singing about the same thing, which I hope everybody who came, came to hear, really. And it’s all about you, actually, and me and everybody around this stage, and everybody that hasn’t gotten here, and the people who are gonna read about you tomorrow. And how really groovy you were. All over the world, if you can dig where that’s at, that’s really where it’s really at.”

And with that, Havens played, beginning with quick, staccato chords. He rocked and swayed on his stool, one foot keeping time on the ground, head bobbing to and fro as if in a trance, and then finally cried out: 

_Freedom, Freedom,_

_Freedom, Freedom._

_Sometimes I feel like a motherless child._

Aziraphale stiffened, as he sang that single line over and over again, confirming that he had heard it. His chest stung, and he could feel his cheeks turn red. Aziraphale had never connected to music on the level that Crowly had before, finding comfort instead in things he could see and touch, or taste. This was the first time he had fully understood the poetry that could be found in lyrics, and how one line could understand you so well.

_Sometimes I feel like a motherless child._

He pushed it down, the hurt in his chest, the recognition that swelled in his head. He was not motherless, no one was motherless. Whether anyone had an earthly mother or not did not erase their Heavenly Mother. _His_ Heavenly Mother. Everyones. He felt Her presence; to say he didn’t was, well, _blasphemy_. It must be. Surely everyone could feel Her.

Well, unless…

He turned to Crowley, and found he was already looking straight at him. He slowly took off his sunglasses, and Aziraphale saw his eyes for the first time since the church had collapsed around them in 1941. They were haunted. Lonely. _Exhausted_. He smiled again, sadly.

“What’s the matter, angel? A little too close to home?”

He flinched, and felt those age old, familiar walls build up around him, and he looked back to the stage sternly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale replied, coldly. “I know exactly who my Mother is.”

“Oh yeah? What’s She been up to lately?” 

_Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,_

_A long way from my home._

He saw Crowley’s face in his periphery twist at those lyrics. The demon quickly replaced the shades on his face and looked back to the stage.

Aziraphale had never seen Crowley like this before. Flayed open and vulnerable, like a pinned butterfly. He had certainly _never_ seen him even _hint_ at missing her, the closest he could think of being their spat about the holy water, over a hundred years ago. There had been so much fear in his voice that day, fear that Aziraphale had been too on edge to register as such. 

He saw it now though. The sorrow and _longing_ that flooded Crowley’s aura as he looked back to the stage. 

Aziraphale wondered, distantly, where the holy water was, and why he hadn’t used it. 

He just caught himself before he prayed that Crowley wouldn’t.

“What about you?” He asked before he could think not to. Crowley’s head snapped back towards him. “Too close to home?” 

“What? Implying we actually have something in common, angel? Thought you were the one who was too good to fall.” Crowley spat out venomously.

_Ah,_ Aziraphale thought. _His mind is on that day too._

He opened his mouth, but could find nothing to say that wouldn’t damn him one way or the other.

  
  


Crowley stared at him, his arms wrapped around his torso defensively. 

They both turned and looked backed to the stage after what felt like centuries.

Havens had risen from his stool, strumming faster and faster, louder and louder, his head and body bobbing too and fro as if the music were puppeteering him around the stage. Aziraphale could see where his kurta stuck to his body, the bright orange turned deep red with the sweat that poured from the man. The crowd clapped to the beat, faster and faster as Havens strummed to a crescendo as he walked off of the stage, still playing, and the crowd burst into a thunderous applause.

As the announcer called Richie Havens' name, Aziraphale turned and saw that Crowley was already gone. 

* * *

An hour or so later, he found Crowley further away from the crowds, lounging on the incline of the hills that surrounded the stadium, near the heavily wooded perimeter of the festival grounds. He rested on his elbows, a lit blunt between his lips, watching from afar as the next act was set up, right after a few key speakers had taken to the stage. 

“Really, Crowley?” Aziraphale said, feigning disapproval. “Marajuana?”

The demon glared up at him, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. He shrugged, taking the rolled cigarette out of his mouth and blowing out a stream of smoke. 

“Really. Care for a hit?”

“It is _illegal_ , you know.”

“So was alcohol here, for a little while. Tell me you didn’t go to a speakeasy, Aziraphale, I dare you.”

Aziraphale realised he had no response to that, and sighed, sitting on the ground to Crowley’s right, grateful to find that the ground was far firmer and dryer up here (though that may have been Crowley’s doing). Crowley held out the blunt and, hesitantly, Aziraphale took it. 

“An Angel could get into a lot of trouble, being seen smoking The Devils Lettuce.” He said distantly. Crowley chuckled.

“Well yeah, I mean who do you think spread that name in the first place? It’s basically harmless, angel. No more dangerous than smoking tobacco. It just terrifies a lot of stiff-lipped humans is all.”

“And a lot of Archangels. Gabriel gave us a whole lecture on it.” Aziraphale took a deep breath, and brought blunt to his lips, trying his hardest not to think about where it had last been, lest he turn red. He had smoked tobacco on a few occasions, but ultimately hadn’t made a habit of it, so he was able to inhale the smoke without too much issue. It was sharper, spicier than tobacco, and he coughed as it left his lungs, his eyes watering at the exertion. He heard Crowley’s laughter, and he realised he didn’t actually care that it was directed at him. It was good to hear it.

“Easy, angel,” the demon giggled. “Take it slow. This isn’t even the strong stuff.”

“Heaven forbid.” Aziraphale wheezed out, passing the joint back to Crowley. “Literally. I’m not sure this is working, dear boy, should I be feeling different?”

“Give it a bit of time, and a few more hits.” Crowley explained, taking another long drag. 

The music started up again on stage, a band named Sweetwater, and the energetic instrumental was still crystal clear. The whooping and clapping had also started up again, but the two of them were able to view it from afar this time.

“Sorry,” Crowley mumbled as they watched the stage, handing the joint back to Aziraphale. The angel furrowed his brow, looking over to him.

“Whatever for?”

“Earlier, I was a prat. Didn’t mean to be.”

Aziraphale felt his jaw drop to the floor.

Crowley was _apologising?_

“Not very demonic of you, is it? Apologising? You’re sure you won’t get in trouble?” Aziraphale said warily, taking another hit off the joint. He could definitely feel it beginning to work, his head becoming just a little lighter and his eyes drooping. Crowley just chuckled.

“No, guess it’s not. But hey, three days of peace and music ahead of me, I’m not feeling especially demonic.” He sighed. “I…I _am_ happy to see you, angel.” Aziraphale let out a shaky breath.

“I missed you, Crowley.” He breathed out. _Must be the grass_ , he thought distantly, _loosening my tongue._

Crowley quirked an eyebrow.

“S’only been two years, angel. We’ve gone far longer before.”

“Yes, I know. It’s only that… this century has been funny so far, hasn’t it? Everything’s changing so terribly _quickly_ , I can hardly keep up with it all. Every day the world changes unrecognisably, and… every time I see you, it’s always still you. Your hair and clothes are different, but it’s _you_. I… I like having you with me. Even when everything around us changes, you’re always nearby.” He took another long drag for courage. “You weren’t in London much these last few years and I… I was half worried that after our last meeting, I might never have seen you again. And I don’t know that I could make sense of all this without you.”

The silence created a third, awkward companion between them. Crowley took a deep breath and wordlessly held his hand out for the joint.

Aziraphale handed it to him.

“I wouldn’t do that to you, angel. Not with your water. I promise you. I don’t know how much that means coming from me, but I mean it.” He turned to Aziraphale, lowering his glasses so that the angel could see his unblinking, canary yellow eyes. 

Aziraphale wasn’t sure quite how comforting “not with your water” really was, but it was all he had. He nodded and smiled.

“It means more than enough.”  
  


The two of them turned to look back at the stage, as the flautist broke off into a solo and, at long last, the vocalist stepped forward. 

_Sometimes I_

_Sometimes I_

_Sometimes I feel like a motherless child._

The two of them froze, and turned to look at eachother.

And then Crowley burst out laughing.

No light chuckling or sardonic giggling, but teary eyed belly laughing. He fell back so that he lay fully on the grass, his hands wrapped round to brace his middle as his laughter shook his body, making him gasp and heave for air. 

Had Aziraphale’s head been clearer, maybe he would have been frightened. 

But he found himself laughing too.

Because really, it was hilarious.

And once he started he couldn’t stop.

“ _T-t-two bloody times_ in a row, that _f-flaming_ song! Oh Satan, I can’t breathe…” Crowley gasped, wiping tears from his face.

“It’s...a t-terribly awful coincidence. Oh, I’m sorry my dear boy, I shouldn’t laugh, I just-” He wheezed as he was cut off yet again by his own treacherous laughter.

“No, no do. Laugh, angel. It’s funny.” Crowley said softly, his head falling to the side, his sunglasses pushed up to the top of his head. Aziraphale’s heart soared; his eyes were just a bit brighter than it had been a few hours before when Aziraphale had tripped over him. 

“I’m glad to see you Aziraphale.” He continued, his voice low and subdued.

“Well, the feeling is mutual. Obviously.”  
  


“ _Obviously_.” Crowley mocked.

“Oh hush, you wily serpent. Where have you been then? The last two years. You weren’t in London.”

“You know, I _do_ get assignments in places that aren’t London.”

“Not usually. You always slither your way out of them, or you just send me.”

Crowley’s eyes darkened a little.

“I wouldn’t send you to bloody Vietnam, angel.”

Oh.

“I… Crowley, I had no idea, I-”

“Don’t. You couldn’t have known, besides, what would you have done about it? Forget about it. We’re a long way away.” He sighed.

But Aziraphale couldn’t forget it.

Crowley’s heat was gone, and something out there had taken it from him.

Suddenly, Crowley was on his feet, looking towards the stage. The band (Sweetwater, Aziraphale remembered they’d been introduced as) had broken off and were talking to the audience. Calmly, unhurriedly, explaining their lateness and their police escort to the venue. Aziraphale remembered the miles and miles of gridlock on the roads up to the festival, the helicopters that had been sent to bring people to the field. They were so incredibly and unexpectedly gentle; Aziraphale hadn’t been sure what to expect from the acts at what he was informed was the most heinous and corrupt festival on earth, but these people seemed kind. They laughed, and joked, and very kindly asked “ all you cats on the tower to get down”, which was met with laughter and applause. Aziraphale looked back to the scaffolding, saw people hanging off in a desperate attempt to be closer to the music, and then saw them reluctantly climb down.

“Here’s a little music to come down the tower by.” One of them called out, as the keyboard and guitar started picking out a quick staccato. 

_What’s wrong in our schools?_

_Politicians are blowing their cools_

_Over they who refuse to abide by the rules_

_Though they should be separate dealings_

Crowley grinned, and looked back to Aziraphale.

“Come on, angel. Let’s dance.”

Aziraphale felt himself turn red, looking down at his hands self consciously.

“What… I mean, I… I don’t… angels don’t really _dance,_ Crowley.” He stuttered nervously. 

“You’re not an angel, you’re a human here to listen to hippie music and do hippie things. And hippie’s _do_ dance.” Crowley said pointedly, gesturing out to the lengths of land in front of them.

Aziraphale looked out, and sure enough, almost everyone was up on their feet. People were on other people's shoulders, people were bumping and swaying, eyes closed and arms raised in the air, letting the music flow through their veins like blood and narcotics. The music reverberated through the ground and through their bare feet, pulsing upwards through their body until it escaped through their open mouths, heads thrown back as they cried out towards the stage like it was the Heavens.

It was breathtaking.

Crowley held out a hand.

Aziraphale took it. 

And they danced. 

* * *

Aziraphale had little experience with dancing. His exploits with the Gavotte were infamous, but he wasn’t the type of angel who often frequented places that people danced at. It wasn’t something he saw a lot of.

But he did know that Crowley was a _very_ bad dancer.

Crowley pranced this way and that, bouncing on the balls of his feet, waving his arms out hypnotically in front of him and, every now and then, bringing his hands up into horizontal V’s over his eyes. It made the angel laugh, but not at him.

Aziraphale was faring no better.

At first when Crowley pulled him to his feet and began to move, Aziraphale had stood stock still, his arms wrapped around his frame self consciously as his eyes darted around him, certain that people were watching him. He was too used to the roaming eyes and hidden snickers of Heaven. But, when he looked around, he saw no one was staring. No one was waiting to judge him.

And the music was becoming infectious. 

He began to move, eyes shut, arms stretched out above him, swaying in time. He loved the way his new coat flew out around him, the feel of his beads soaring from his chest, and the airiness of his new clothes in the summer breeze. He spun round, twirling round and round, only stopping when his closed eyes combined with the quick movement made him dizzy, and he stumbled. Before he could so much as begin to fall, strong arms were under his, holding him steady. He opened his eyes, and found Crowley’s inches away. 

He couldn’t remember the last time they had been this close. If they ever _had_ been. 

Their eyes met, and even with the music came to a cacophonous finish and the crowd roared, the world went silent. He could feel Crowley’s breath against his face, against his lips, which began to part without him telling them to.

And then the Heavens opened. 

The wind and rain came hard and heavy and _quickly_ , extinguishing the pleasant warmth that had swarmed Aziraphale seconds ago. What had before been mud turned to a swamp beneath his feet as Crowley took his hand once more and led him rapidly through the crowds. 

Very few people moved away from the stage. 

The rain soaked right through his lovely new jacket, and the flowers in his hair went limp and sad under the downpour. As they made their way back to the bus, he could hear a man on stage instructing others to stay away from the towers, lest the gale force knock them over. 

As they walked through, he saw people going back to their cars to wait it out, or back to their loosely pitched tents. A few poor souls huddled together beneath a clear plastic sheet they had presumably snagged from the construction site the previous day, looking just as cold as he felt. As they passed by, an older man with bloodshot eyes who was similarly soaked through began to shake his head and rant to anyone who was nearby to listen.

“They fuckin’ seeded it, man! Those fuckin’ fascist pigs, they seeded it and no one’s doing anything about it!”

“I, uh, beg your pardon?” Aziraphale called back through chattering teeth, even as Crowley tugged at him to try and move along. The man, seeing he had an audience, stalked over to the angel and pointed at the sky, just as a plane passed overhead.

“There, that’s the third one! It’s the planes, man! They keep dropping smoke out the back, just as they fly over. They’re seeding the clouds, triggering the rain to drown us out, right? And no one’s doing a fuckin’ thing about it! Fuckin’ pigs, man. They’re trying to flush us out!”

“Come _on_ , angel.” Crowley hissed, tugging lightly at him again, and Aziraphale surrendered, moving away from the incensed stranger.

“Right, well, jolly good! Thank you for the information!” Aziraphale called out as Crowley pulled him back towards the bus. 

Buttercup was already inside. She looked to be dry, luckily having avoided the rain, and was in the process of drying off Aphrodite with a soft towel. She had evidently been _less_ lucky. Upon seeing the two of them, her face lit up and she smiled in pity at the sight of them, soaked and shivering, quickly bringing them inside. 

“You poor things; that rain came out of nowhere! Oh, Aziraphale, your brand new clothes! Here, let me take them, they’ll dry in no time.” Buttercup fretted, peeling Aziraphale’s jacket off of him before he could protest. He was too disoriented to say anything back, but nodded feebly as she directed him to the sofa, draping a dry towel over his shoulders. He wrapped it tightly round himself, shivering. 

“Thanks, love.” Crowley said in his place, tying his soaking hair away from his face. “Where are the other little nightmares?” He said, looking around the relatively small space of the bus. Buttercup sighed.

“They went to watch the music with their father, they haven’t come back yet. Idiots’ll catch their death of cold if they’re not careful.” She muttered, going over to the camp stove and putting an old, painted kettle over the ring. “Here, I’ll put some tea on, it’ll warm you right up.”  
  


“None for me,” Crowley muttered, donning a long, black coat over his still soaked clothes. “I’ll go get the sprogs, be right back.” He strode out the door again, tugging the coat tightly around him against the brutal wind outside.

“AJ, wait!” Buttercup called out, watching him go, but not going out to chase him. She groaned, turning back to the kettle. “Impulsive idiot. Is he always like this, Aziraphale?” She laughed, turning to face the angel, who dripped miserably onto the bus floor. He huffed a soft laugh, looking out the window behind him where Crowley strode his usual uneven walk through the increasingly unpleasant mud. 

“You have no idea.” He murmured, lifting the towel to dry his sopping wet hair. Aphrodite ran off to the sectioned off bedroom, seemingly bored and impatient now that her playground had become a marshland, leaving Buttercup and Aziraphale in the main room, a comfortable silence keeping them warm.

“So how long have you known AJ?” She asked softly, lifting the kettle as it began to whistle, and spooning dried herbs into a couple of old tin mugs. 

“Oh, Crowley? I...well, _forever_ , I suppose,” he stammered. _Not a lie, really_. Buttercup smiled, pouring the kettle steadily.

“That’s so lovely! And such a funny coincidence, you both being here without planning to be. AJ mentioned he hadn’t seen you in a little while.”

“Ah, well yes. We uh…work keeps us apart sometimes, and these really are funny old times so…I suppose we’ve both been busy.” Buttercup smiled sadly, holding out one full mug to Aziraphale, who gratefully took it, letting the warmth of it seep through his hands.

“Yeah, it really has been. AJ has been such a sweetheart, and so good with the children. To be honest with you, I don’t think all this is really his scene, you know. Don’t get me wrong, AJ is a groovy guy, but I can tell this isn’t his style. I mean, you’d know better than me.” Aziraphale nodded.

“No, I suppose it isn’t.” He agreed.

“I didn’t think so. But I think…this here? Right now? It’s what he needs. It’s what _everyone_ needs right now; the journalists, the locals, the cameramen, they look around and they can’t believe what they’re seeing, you know? Second largest city in New York over here, almost one _million_ people being chilled out and groovy in the same space, no fighting, no nothing.” She blew on her tea, thinking for a moment before speaking next. “And… it’s just _working_ , and people see that and they don’t believe it! You know why it’s working, Aziraphale? Because we need it. Because people like my husband, Johnny, people like AJ, they’ve been through Hell, we’ve all been through Hell. And here we have no war, no fighting, no rules. Hardly no one even raises their voice, ya know? It’s…paradise.”  
  


“What…what happened to Crowley? I last saw him in 1967, and he was…he was different.” He asked, taking a slow sip of his tea. It was smokey and strong, and surprisingly palettable. 

“You mean you don’t know?”

“I know where he was, I just…don’t know what happened to him, whilst he was there.” Buttercup smiled sadly.

“Well, then, it’s not my place to tell you, sweetie, I’m sorry.” Aziraphale nodded in understanding. “We’ve talked a little bit about AJ, but what about _you?_ ” Aziraphale almost choked.

“ _Me_?” 

“Yeah, you! Don’t get me wrong, Aziraphale, you’re a real groovy guy, but this doesn’t exactly seem like your scene either.” She said, laughing warmly. “What brought you here?”

_Well, now isn’t_ that _the question._

He looked around the bus, a small but cozy home that oozed Love from every nook and cranny. He remembered how he felt in the crowds, dancing to music he’d never listen to otherwise. He remembered seeing a hundred thousand faces turned up in prayer, and not in a church. 

_Not exactly a den of sin, so far._

He remembered letting his body take over as he pranced and spun. He remembered eyes on his, and lips just inches away from his own. 

_Well…_

“I don’t really know.” He answered finally.

_That one certainly isn’t a lie._

Buttercup nodded, reaching out to run her thumb across the bright blue gemstone round Aziraphale’s neck. 

“I think the two of you are supposed to be here. Like, cosmically. I think you’re meant to be exactly where you are right now.”

“Drenched from the rain, imposing on a lovely young woman I’ve never met?” Buttercup laughed.

“We’ve exchanged names, haven’t we? You’re no stranger anymore, you’re wearing my necklace for Christ's sake. Do you know what this is?” She asked, nodding to the lumpy, smooth stone that hung round his neck.

“Oh, I’m afraid geology isn’t my strong suit, my dear. But it is _very_ beautiful.” 

“Thank you, Aziraphale! But that’s not what I meant. A gemstone’s appearance usually holds very little bearing to its nature. This is aquamarine, it’s a healing stone. It’s supposed to inspire truth, trust, and letting go.”

Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat. 

“Something’s brought you here, Aziraphale,” She said, taking another sip of tea, “now you just need to find out what it is. Be honest, be open. And let go.”

* * *

The rain came and went in bursts, drumming a brutal rhythm into the steel roof of the bus. The sun was finally setting, but the music showed no intention of stopping. Crowley soon returned, a sopping wet child on his hip and another clinging on to his free hand, and behind him was Johnny, who Aziraphale soon recognised as the man who had confronted him that afternoon. To his great relief, he wasn’t angry or upset to see Aziraphale there, but immediately apologised. 

“Look, I lost my cool earlier today, man. Been way too keyed up in the crowds, had a couple bad run-ins earlier, but there’s no excuse for that shit. I shouldn't have made you feel unwelcome here, you know?” Johnny said sincerely, shivering in his drenched hempen clothes.

“Oh, really, it’s no trouble! Water under the bridge, and all that.” Aziraphale flushed. Johnny smiled, looking equally relieved.

“I’m glad! AJ was telling me about you, that you’re a groovy guy. I was hoping I hadn’t missed my chance to meet you.” He smiled, moving past Aziraphale to strip off his shirt and jacket. 

Aziraphale’s heart thrummed anxiously beneath his ribs. What would Crowley have to say about him? He knew the demon was unlikely to gossip about him, but he felt his palms go clammy at the thought of other people talking about him. Heaven had an ever-churning gossip mill, and Aziraphale knew that he ended up in it more often than he’d like. He feared one day his ears would burn right off. 

But Crowley wouldn’t snigger about his body, his clothes, his passions and hobbies. As much as he was loathe to admit it, Crowley knew him ten times better than anyone in Heaven did. 

Crowley himself was gently towelling down one of the toddlers, deft hands scrubbing his hair until it stuck up, soft and static. The child was rambling, at first about the music, and then about the rain, and then something rather insightful about dinosaurs. Crowely simply nodded and hummed along, tactfully biting his tongue at the mention of fossils. 

Crowley always did have a soft spot for children.

Aziraphale looked around, and found another dry towel, gingerly stepping towards Crowley, who released the child to reap havoc elsewhere, now dry and relatively warm. The demon looked up at him through blush sunglasses, now streaked with rainwater, and smiled. 

“Nice and dry, angel?” He asked, and Aziraphale’s heart did another summersault in his chest.

_Keep it together, Principality._

“Dryer than _you_ , my dear.” He huffed, kneeling down and dumping the towel over Crowley’s head, immediately beginning to dry his long, thick hair with hands that he kept steady with an iron will. Crowley stiffened at the sudden intimate contact, looking rather like a deer caught in headlights. “Is this okay, my dear?”

“Ngk.” Crowley choked out.

“Oh, I’m sorry, let me-” Aziraphale stuttered, moving away.

“I didn’t say stop.” Crowley murmured. “Besides, it never dries right when I miracle it dry.” Aziraphale breathed a small sigh of relief, and returned the towell, gently twisting the scarlet locks, feeling the moisture soak through the cotton.

“What was that about, anyways? Not like you to go around doing good deeds-”

“Oi, enough bloody slander, alright?” Crowley growled, and Aziraphale could have sworn he saw the demon blush. He lowered his voice. “Besides, s’not a good deed?”

“Oh no?”

“Nah. Saving sinners, right? You’re here to purify them, and here I go making sure they’re healthy to sin again tomorrow. Thwarting you, angel. _Fantastically_ evil.” 

Aziraphale snorted, looking back at the others, Buttercup was sitting with the littler kids, and Aphrodite was play-fighting with her dad. They didn’t appear to be paying attention to anything the two of them were saying.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. Wily fiend, spoiling my angelic plans. It would be _especially_ demonic if all of their clothes were dry and fresh tomorrow morning.”

“Oh? Not up for a quick miracle?” Crowley teased. Aziraphale’s smile faltered. “Oh. Right. Can’t be wasting ‘frivolous miracles’ on sinners, I suppose.” 

“Oh, goodness no, Gabriel would have my neck. He _detests_ these people Crowley it’s...well it’s rather frightening. He’s rather tetchy, at the moment.” 

Crowley snarled, turning away from the angel. He tried not to feel hurt, continuing to lather at Crowley’s hair with the towell; the friction and humidity was making it frizzy. 

“Bloody wank-wings. You’d think there was nothing else going on. Does the righteous bastard really think there’s nowhere better to send you?” He spat, shivering miserably. Aziraphale shrugged.

“Well, I’m rather glad he did. I got to see you again.”

* * *

The rest of the evening continued as whatever passed for peacefully as the sun began to set on the first day of Woodstock, and the music showed no sign of stopping, and the crowds no sign of dispersing. Buttercup had insisted firmly that the two of them stay for dinner, which ended up being a rather lumpy, but incredibly flavourful, lentil dahl, and it didn’t take long for Aziraphale to finish his bowl. Crowley pushed his portion around with his spoon, characteristically not hungry, but had a few bites to appease the fretful force of Buttercup. They sat on the sofa and on the floor, kids eating with their fingers and adults making do with mismatched spoons. In all Aziraphale’s years of culinary adventures, he’d never had a meal quite like it. 

With hot food inside him and finally dry and warm, Aziraphale could feel himself drooping. He wasn’t often tired, and sleep had always been more Crowley’s thing anyways, but every now and then, the world exhausted him. And after the music, the dancing, the rain, and the intoxicating effect of Crowley’s presence (not to mention the grass, to which his body was woefully unaccustomed), he was positively nodding off. 

He was startled out of his stupor by a heavy hand on his shoulder, turning to see Crowley smirking at him.

“Worn out, angel?” He asked softly.

“Yes, a bit. Sorry, my dear, not awfully exciting of me I know.” Crowley shrugged.

“Not to worry. Come on, you can stay at my place, if you like.” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed, so taken aback he was able to ignore how his heart thrummed at the invitation.

“ _Your_ place? Did…did you bring the _Bentley_ -”

“ _Christ,_ angel, of course not. What do you take me for? Nah, I found something else. Come on, let’s get you somewhere to rest.

They bid their farewells to Buttercup and Johnny by way of spine-cracking hugs, and Crowley allowed himself to be wrestled into hugs by the children, to Aziraphale’s amusement. As Buttercup pulled Aziraphale into a strong, warm embrace, she leaned into his ear. 

“I’m so glad you’re here with us Aziraphale,” she whispered. “I think these next few days are going to be unforgettable for you.”

Unable to form any articulate response, Aziraphale just stood limply in her arms, and nodded just slightly into her shoulder.

Outside the bus the air was heavy and humid in the still darkness, and Aziraphale knew that there’d be more rain before the sun rose again. From across the field, a soft, sweet voice rang out, accompanied by an acoustic guitar.

_If a tinker were my trade_ _  
_ _Would you still find me_ _  
_ _Carryin' the pots I made_ _  
_ _Followin' behind me?_

_Save my love through loneliness_ _  
_ _Save my love for sorrow_ _  
_ _I'm given you my oneliness_ _  
_ _Come give your tomorrow_

Aziraphale shivered a little, the mans voice planting goosebumps on his skin. Such a common theme in love songs, he thought. How an occupation could make you undeserving of the person you cared about.

Crowley weaved him through the maze of cars and tents, very few of them occupied despite the time. Thousands upon thousands still sat huddled around the half formed stage as that young man sang of love and the lack of it. 

Eventually, the demon beside him came to a halt, and he turned to see what they had arrived at.

“Oh, _really._ ” Aziraphale grumbled. 

In front of them was a Volkswagen type 2. A hippie van. Still its factory black, but a hippie van nonetheless.

Crowley looked _disgustingly_ proud of himself. 

“What’s wrong, angel? Blending in, aren’t I? Now come on, your royal suite awaits.”

He opened the large central door and dramatically gestured for the angel to enter. Instead of the usual camper van setup that Aziraphale had expected, there was just a large, cushy, and _sinfully_ cozy bed set-up, stacked high with pillows and quilts, that stretched from the drivers seats to the back of the van. 

“Oh, _Crowley_ , this looks heavenly. Sorry, poor choice of words.” Crowley waved his apology away. “Oh, but my dear, there’s only one bed! I couldn’t possibly-”

“Nah, you’re fine, angel. I wouldn’t offer if it wasn’t. Bed’s yours, and there’s a suitcase in the passenger suit with clothes and things.”

“But Crowley, you love to sleep!” Crowley grimaced, and not for the first time that day, Aziraphale cursed his careless tongue. 

“Bleh, not been feeling it lately. You know me, flighty, hopping between the trends. Sleep is out, angel, gotta keep up with the trends.”

“And I suppose this is me being old fashioned again?” He teased. Crowley laughed.

“Of course. Wouldn’t be you, otherwise.”

Aziraphale smiled, and his face contorted into a yawn he couldn’t quite stifle as he kicked off his new shoes and shrugged off his coat, and was able to manage no more before he collapsed back onto the bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow. 

* * *

“Angel...hey, angel! Wake up, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale was reluctantly roused from sleep and found himself looking directly into a pair of serpentine eyes. Crowley had his hands gently on Aziraohale’s forearms, and had clearly been trying to rouse him from sleep. He looked past the demon’s head, and saw that it was still dark out.

“W-wha…Crowley, what time is it? It’s not morning yet, is it?”  
  


“No, not yet. But not too far off. Come on, there’s one more act tonight, you have to see her. Once in a lifetime, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale hoisted himself up to his elbows and wiped the grogginess from his eyes. Goodness, he was so pitifully unused to sleeping. 

“Who…who is she?”

“Her name’s Joan Baez, she was meant to go on earlier and I thought I’d missed her, but the schedule went a bit out the window.” He said, grining.

“You sure you didn’t have a part in that, dear boy?” Aziraphale teased.

“No, but I’ll certainly say I did. Come on angel, come with me.” 

Aziraphale sighed, and smiled. He could feel a little rush of adrenaline in his chest that humans always felt doing something like this; staying up late, being spontaneous, and doing it all with loved ones.

Aziraphale only ever stayed up late because he was reading, and he was certainly never spontaneous.

And _certainly_ had no real loved ones to speak of, no matter what the percussions in his heart told him.

He felt good. He felt alive. He was beginning to understand why the heart symbolised all it did in human art and literature, how it became more than just one of many necessary organs in keeping the human body functional.

He slipped his shoes and coat on, and followed Crowley out of the van.

It had rained again whilst Aziraphale slept, and the ground was decidedly squelchier beneath his feet, but the humidity in the air had been released somewhat and it was pleasantly cool. He heard the telltale signs of the stage being set up, and spotted the young woman he assumed to be Joan Baez, who sat tuning her guitar patiently.

Crowley took him to a spot near the stage which was miraculously clear of hippies, and they sat cross legged amongst thousands of others who were doing the same, clearly also beginning to droop as night slowly turned to morning. He almost felt guilty for taking a space so close to the stage, but it washed away the moment she began to sing the very familiar melody of ‘Oh Happy Day’.

And oh, her _voice_ . Whilst Aziraphale wasn’t always the _most_ up to date on music, the angel in him was drawn to choir music. He had heard some of the most beautiful music in his whole life in the gospel choirs of churches around the globe. The joy, the passion, in their voices, it was a truer show of devotion than quiet reverence and strict discipline had ever been. Baez’s voice shrilled like a songbird, and even though her instrumentation was nowhere near as intense as Havens’ or Sweetwater’s had been, he still felt every note vibrate through him. Where the crowd had been loudly appreciative all day, now they were silent in their admiration. 

She moved through song after song, each met with thunderous applause, before she stopped and smiled again.

“I’d like to sing you a song that is one of my husband, David’s, favourite songs, and let me just tell you that he’s fine, and…” she paused, and Aziraphale was close enough to the stage to see her become visibly choked up. The audience began to clap encouragingly as she composed herself, eyes watery but still smiling. She moved the guitar from where it hung over her torso, and patted her visibly round stomach. “And _we’re_ fine too.”

_My goodness,_ Aziraphale thought, _she really is incredible_.

“And David was just shipped from the county jail, which is very much of a drag, to a federal prison, which is kind of like a big summer camp after you’ve been in county jail long enough.”

Aziraphale shuddered, remembering his brief stint in the Bastille.

“Anyways, this is an organising song, and I was happy to find out that after David had been in jail for two and a half weeks, he already had a very, very good hunger strike going with 42 federal prisoners, none of whom were draft people, so…” she trailed off as she began to softly strum on her guitar, and then she leant in and sang.

_I dreamed, I saw Joe Hill last night_

_Alive as you and me_

_Says I "But Joe, you're ten years dead"_

_"I never died" says he_

_"I never died" says he_

_"The copper bosses killed you, Joe"_

_"They shot you Joe" says I_

_"Takes more than guns to kill a man"_

_Says Joe "I didn't die"_

_Says Joe "I didn't die"_

An old protest song, of course. It made sense. Baez and her husband sounded like quite the revolutionaries.

“What’s he in prison for, then? Her husband, David.” Aziraphale whispered.

“Refusing induction into the armed forces.” Crowley replied blankly. Aziraphale turned to look at him, but Crowley stayed focussed on Baez.

“Oh.” He said simply. “That’s…”

“It’s bloody ridiculous, is what it is. Your bosses can’t hear you here, Aziraphale, you can say it.” Crowley huffed.

“Yes, well, I do wonder about that sometimes.” He sighed. “You’re right. It is a bit ridiculous. Though you shant let Gabriel hear me saying that war of any kind is ridiculous.”

“Yeah, big fan of wars, your lot.” He murmured, bitterly. Aziraphale was lost for words. He felt all of sudden very cowardly.

“Crowley,” he asked softly, “what happened? In Vietnam, what happened to you?”

Crowley inhaled sharply, still not turning away from the stage. For a long time Aziraphale didn’t think he was going to answer, and he tried to focus back in on the song when he heard Crowley breathe out shakily.

“Not tonight, angel. But I will. Just gimme a bit, yeah?” Crowley choked out. The last time he had heard his friend so distressed was in St James Park, the day of the ducks and the burnt note. This wouldn’t be that day. 

He reached a shaky hand across, until it met Crowley’s, and squeezed tight.

Joan Baez finished her song with a little flourish.

The audience erupted into applause. 

And Crowley squeezed back. 

Joan Baez moved through the rest of her setlist as smoothly as fine wine, her gospel voice ringing into the still night air, and still Crowley did not let go. And as she finished, and the crowd hollered and cheered, Crowley pulled him up wordlessly and let him back the van. 

Aziraphale returned to bed silently, the adrenaline of the evening well and truly gone, and collapsed into bed, and at 3:45am, day one of Woodstock was concluded. 


	2. Day 2, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 of Woodstock: Aziraphale learns some new information, and greets some familiar faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! It's been a minute.
> 
> Genuinely I'm so sorry, I've had this as it is sitting for a while now before I decided to just post this as a chapter and work on the rest of day 2 as another - this is already a monster as it is! No one wants to read 20 - 25K in one sitting.
> 
> Life has been a bit crazy for me, but things are really looking up lately.
> 
> Sorry again. I haven't forgotten this fic.
> 
> CW: Body shaming, nudity, the absolute briefest mention of violence, and minor drug use and drug dealing, nothing graphic at all I promise.
> 
> Stay safe xx

  
  
Saturday 26th August 1969

Aziraphale slept the same way a human learnt to drive a car. It was stop and start, and he was very close to throwing in the towel. After his initial drop, once his body had recovered from the shock of the previous day, he found the whole thing a little difficult to maintain, even though he still felt tired. The bed was sinfully comfy, and the night was pleasantly warm, but ultimately he was bored. 

He woke up first, if his watch was right, and it always was, at 4:30, not long after he’d gone back to sleep, and Crowley was a little way outside the van, talking softly to two other men that he didn’t recognise. Crowley was using that tone of voice that he always did when there was tempting to be done, his whole body in Business Mode. He vaguely saw money exchanging hands, and Crowleu handed over a small, see-through bag, but it was too dark to see what. 

Aziraphale’s heart clenched a little; he had had a lecture about brown acid, and all the wonderful side effects that came with it. “God didn’t give you celestial bodies just so you could pump them full of garbage,” or so Gabriel had said. It had sounded a lot more frightening than marajuana had, lots of horror stories of powerful hallucinations and panic attacks, and he had heard a warning about it from the stage before any of the music had started. They hadn’t strictly _banned_ it, or even discouraged it, just given an impersonal warning. 

The apple tree once again stood proudly in the middle of the garden, and the serpent was at work.

The two men departed and Crowley lit another spliff as Aziraphale sat up on the bed. Crowley’s head jerked round at the sudden movement behind him, his expression unreadable behind his shades, but his body tense nonetheless. He seemed to remember where he was at the sight of Aziraphale, and let out a shaky breath, stained with smoke.

“Awake already, angel?” He asked, voice low. He sounded terribly loud in the patchy silence of the night; the music had stopped, but there was still chattering and laughing that cropped up from every corner of the campsite. He could even hear the soft, melodic strumming of an acoustic guitar somewhere in the darkness. This was what passed for quiet now. 

“In and out,” he replied. “Who were they?”

“Customers.”

“Customers? You’re an acid dealer now?” Aziraphale tried very hard not to sound judgemental, but it crept in anyways.

“Something like that. Just doing business, angel, their choice whether or not they buy it.”

“Right. Testing free will, no change there then.” He said a little more harshly than he’d intended. Crowley’s face flickered with something that looked like guilt in the darkness.

“Yeah, well. Pretty bloody stupid use of free will to buy fake drugs, huh?” 

“Yes I...sorry, what?” Crowley grinned.

“They’re cut up postage stamps, angel. I reckon it’ll take them a good forty-five minutes or so for them to twig, or they’ll have a lovely placebo effect instead,” he said suggestively enough that Aziraphale could feel the demonic miracle behind the words. “Rather dastardly of me, if I do say so myself.”

“But of course.” Aziraphale teased, stifling a yawn. This was an age old game. “Utterly wicked. I should smite you where you stand, you foul fiend.”

“Bastard.” Crosldy scoffed in return. “You might want to get some more sleep, today will be no less jarring than yesterday.”

“Mmm, yes,” he mumbled, already curling back under the covers. “I don’t know that I’m much good at it though, to be honest.” What he _didn’t_ say was ‘ _well yes, that’s all fine and good, but I’d probably have a better time with it if I had some decent company_.’

“Don’t fret, angel, you’re a natural. If you’re not up at nine, I’ll wake you, okay?” Aziraphale smiled. 

“Alright. Goodnight, Crowley.”

“‘Night, Aziraphale.”

* * *

Aziraphale woke twice more in the early morning, for no more than a minute or so, to find that Crowley was still perched outside the van, watching the sky turn lighter and lighter as more people began to stir, and when he finally felt his body snap fully awake, his watch read 8:27 and Crowley had disappeared. 

He furrowed his brow, maneuvering himself in the low space of the van to get his coat and shoes back on. He had slept with the necklace on, the heavy blue gemstone digging a little into his chest as he tossed and turned. He found he didn’t mind it so much. 

The ground was still marshy, and the unaffected grass glittered with morning dew as the day properly began. Birdsong filtered through from the surrounding woodlands, and the human voices harmonised beautifully as some people began to wake up after a long and energetic night. He scanned his eyes around the crowds, but couldn’t see the shock of red hair or stand-out black attire anywhere nearby. Deciding to go check in on Buttercup, Aziraphale strode his way through the campsite, trying to remember the route that Crowley had dragged him through, calling the demon's name as he went in the hopes of attracting his attention, wherever he was, but came up empty.

He managed to cautiously pick his way through to the bus, and found that the site was empty except for Johnny, who was perched on the steps to the bus, smoking from a pipe. He saw Aziraphale and immediately perked up, waving to catch the angel’s attention.

“Mornin’, Aziraphale! You’re up early, we thought you’d sleep through the morning after the night you had!” He called out jovially.

“Good morning to you too!” Aziraphale got out in a rush, relieved to see a familiar face. “I do hope you and your family slept alright last night! I must confess, the day did quite exhaust me!

“Oh, Buttercup and the kids slept fine! I didn’t get much, came to talk with AJ for a bit but you were already asleep.” Johnny confessed, patting the stair next to him. Aziraphale took the hint and came to join him.

“Oh, I must have just missed you! I hope you aren’t too exhausted, what on earth kept you up so late? Oh, i-if you don’t mind me asking, goodness I’m sorry, what a terribly invasive question, I-”

“Hey, hey, Aziraphale it’s okay!” Johnny interrupted, holding up his hands. “Really, I’m an open book. Honesty is the key to living freely, y’know? If you can’t talk about it, how can you move past it? Nah, when I sleep, I get nightmares. Gift from ol’ Uncle Sam.” He said it without a hint of bitterness or resent. “Just hate what it does to me, y’know? Makes me angry and paranoid, and all that does is hurt other people. Like you, yesterday.”

“So you…you served in Vietnam?” Johnny nodded.

“Not exactly proud of it. It was either serve prison time and leave Buttercup alone with the kids, or serve military time and leave Buttercup alone with the kids. If I could go back, I’d probably just take the jail time, y’know? I coulda come home in a box, Aziraphale. I think about that shit all the time.” His voice began to thin out a little, and Aziraphale turned to look at him, and properly took in just how _tired_ he was. His hand clutching the pipe was trembling. Aziraphale cleared his throat a little, and Johnny flinched, looking back at him.

“But,” Aziraphale reminded him, “you didn’t. You were discharged, I assume? It’s just…well, you don’t look…” Injured, is what he wanted to say. He had seen young men missing eyes and limbs on their return home. He knew the army cared very little about the wounds you couldn’t see, the wounds that they all came home with no matter what. 

“Yeah, I know.” He laughed, softly. “Discharged on grounds of insanity.”

“Insanity?”

“Went ape-shit on my commanding officer, knocked a few teeth out.”

“Oh.” They sat in silence a moment. “May I ask why?”

“He beat AJ half to death.” Aziraphale’s headshot round, his mouth going dry. 

“What?” He tried to squeak out, hoping his voice didn’t betray the all-consuming horror and _rage_ he could feel coursing through him. “He…what…how _dare_ -”

“I know. He can tell you the rest, if he wants to.”

“How…my dear, how are you not in prison? Surely they would have court marshalled you?” Johnny huffed a laugh around his pipe.

“I ask myself the same damn thing every day. I don’t know how, but AJ got us out, cleared to go home, permanently discharged. The guy’s a goddamn miracle worker.”

_You can say that again_.

“We got officially discharged in May, after AJ spent a month in hospital. No idea how it wasn’t longer, seriously. Afterwards, I took him back to the homestead, fought to get him to stay, and the rest is history.”

Aziraphale nodded, numbly. The thought of anyone landing Crowley in hospital at _all_ , let alone for a _month_ even with his healing abilities filled him with blinding hot rage And where had he been? Crowley had saved him countless times, and what had he been doing? Pottering about in London. Hoarding books and doing arbitrary little assignments. He had to find him, as soon as possible.

“I…thank you, Johnny, most sincerely for telling me your story, I have to...have to find Crowley, would you know…?” Johnny nodded.

“Heading towards the pond, with Buttercup and the kids last I saw. Go easy on him, okay?”

Aziraphale nodded and rose unsteadily to his feet.

“Right, yes, of course. I just…just need to see him. I’ll see you later.” He called back hurriedly as he began to stride towards the large pond just a short hike north of the festival grounds. 

He remembered how defeated Crowley had looked when he found him, how transformed. Crowley was a veritable expert in mischief and disorder, it was unsurprising he had made waves in the army. His whole existence was rebellion, unruliness and insubordination. 

_Why did Hell send him there in the first place? Why the army?_

_How on Earth can I heal him?_

“Crowley?” He called as he went, just in case they hadn’t yet made it to their destination. “Crowley, where the blazes-”

“Aziraphale! Goodness, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Aziraphale froze, his heart plummeting in his chest at the familiar voice that had rung cheerfully from behind him. Unable to prolong the inevitable, Aziraphale turned and looked up at the Archangels Gabriel and Sandalphon, both of whom looked remarkably out of place in their crisp, tailored suits and general tidiness. The fact that this stood out suddenly made him very aware of how disheveled he must look. Anxiety pooled in his gut, and he swallowed in an attempt to clear the lump in his throat.

“G-goodness! Gabriel, Sandalphon, I, uh...I didn’t expect to see you here!”

“Well, we thought we’d stop by, check in on our favourite earth operative! Make sure you’re staying on the right track, and all that.” Gabriel announced, beaming. Sandalphon had moved to stand behind Aziraphale, and he felt sweat spike on the back of his neck. “Earlier there, you were _calling_ someone…the demon Crowley, Hell’s agent stationed on Earth, correct?”

“O-oh! Yes, you see I thought I caught a glimpse of him earlier, a-and it would make sense, I suppose, wouldn’t it? For him to be stationed here.” This seemed to have been the right thing to say to get Gabriel off the track of Crowley, and why exactly Aziraphale had said his name so casually, because Gabriel nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. Freaks...I can feel Hell’s fingerprints all over this God-forsaken field.”

“Yes,” Sandalphon agreed, “it just smells of... _evil_ …”

“Oh, I think that might just be the, uh, herbs.” Aziraphale suggested helpfully. That elicited a bark of laughter from Gabriel.

“Very good, Aziraphale! You’re becoming fast accustomed. Is that why you’re wearing the, uh…” He gestured helplessly at Aziraphale’s ensemble.

“Oh, yes! Well, you see, I was attracting an awful lot of suspicion in my usual attire, and so I was able to borrow some clothes from a family camping nearby.” Gabriel’s gaze darkened somewhat.

“You mean to say you accepted charity from a sinner?” He asked slowly. Aziraphale’s breath caught.

“W-well yes! B-but only so that I could talk with them further, perhaps convince them to repent, and we really are making marvellous progress together! They’ll be turned towards the light in no time, you’ll see!” He stammered out, deciding that Gabriel must have forgotten about the parable of the good Samaritan. Gabriel looked at him a little longer, and Aziraphale could feel Sandalphon’s presence steady and still behind him. After a good few seconds of silence, the Archangel’s beaming smile returned and he clapped his hands together. Aziraphale managed not to flinch away from it.

“Well! At least something finally got you out of those drab clothes and that silly bow-tie. The fabric is so loose, you can’t even see your stomach under all of it!” He laughed jovially, leaning forward to pat Aziraphale’s belly in a manner that was about as playful as a bank robbery.

“You fit right in like that,” Sandalphon added in. “Michael even said that they don’t eat any meat, maybe you’ll lose the gut down here!”

The two laughed raucously, and Aziraphale knew they were expecting him to laugh along too, and gave it his best most convincing attempt, hoping his face wasn’t as red as it felt. 

“Ah well, we can see you’re really trying your hardest out here, Aziraphale, keep up the good work! Oh, and be mindful of the rain, we’ve ordered in another batch for this afternoon. We thought yesterday would do the trick, but these little rats are persistent.” Gabriel said in farewell, beginning to turn away.

“W-wait! Sorry, I don’t quite understand...the rainstorm yesterday, that was you?” Aziraphale asked incredulously. Gabriel turned back, looking as if Aziraphale had just asked if he was quite certain the sky was blue.

“I mean, uh, yeah? ‘You heavens above, rain down My righteousness; let the clouds shower it down. Let the earth open wide, let salvation spring up, let righteousness flourish with it, and so on.”

“Isaiah, 45:8.” Aziraphale said numbly. “You… you mean to say that _She_ … that this is _Her_ direct judgement?”

“Oh, goodness no! No she’s been rather quiet on the matter, but it’s Heavenly judgement. So, same thing, you know?” Aziraphale didn’t feel up to arguing that point.

“So…you miracled the rain?” That seemed like a rather big miracle, but Gabriel _was_ an Archangel after all.

“Don’t be silly! You think I have time to be summoning storms? No, we outsource for that kind of thing nowadays. You might have seen some of the planes yesterday; technology, it’s amazing, right?”

Aziraphale remembered the planes yesterday, remembered the frenzied older man . More vividly, he remembered the thousands of people who sat cold and wet without shelter, and that age old guilt swelled in his chest like a pastry in the oven. 

“Right. It is. So… we can expect more of that today, can we?”

“Yep! They should all get the message this time. Also uh, maybe avoid the frivolous miracles, okay champ? It’s _punishment_ Aziraphale, they should feel it. Oh, and maybe find somewhere to get inside.” Aziraphale didn’t bother to explain there was very little ‘inside’ to speak of. “Any more questions?” He said with the finality of a museum tour guide. Aziraphale shook his head. Gabriel smiled pleasantly. “Well, then I’ll see you around, sunshine.” And with that he disappeared. 

Aziraphale sighed, and turned, yelping in surprise when he bumped into Sandalphon, who hadn’t yet left. The Archangel looked him up and down with scrutiny before stepping back. 

“Careful, Aziraphale. We all know you have a habit of indulging in earthly pleasures.” He said coldly, his eyes flicking down to Aziraphale’s stomach. “Don’t allow yourself to be… tempted.”

And with that he was gone, and Aziraphale breathed again. 

He felt himself slump just a little, and his arms curled around his torso in an age old habit. He could still feel eyes on him, even with the archangels gone and everyone else’s attention elsewhere. Attention slid off of archangels like...well...something off something else. He should be so lucky.

He vaguely remembered having plans to go and find Crowley and set off in the direction of the lake, the glory of the morning now faded to him. The morning dew beneath his sandals just felt damp. 

* * *

It was still early in the morning, but there was a decent crowd down by the pond. Some were perched by the banks, enjoying the morning sunshine, but the vast majority were in the water, bathing and swimming, and almost all of them were nude. Aziraphale stood at the water’s edge and found himself unsure of where to look; he knew, of course, that shame surrounding the naked human body was a social construct, and that nudity carried no inherently sexual connotation. For goodness sake, Adam and Eve had lived out their time in paradise with no need for clothing. But then, habits form rather strongly over 6000 years. Young, lithe bodies glistened in the early light, harsh tanlines creating the illusion of modesty on their pale frames.

The tableau was broken as a figure emerged from the water, shaking his long, soaked hair away from his face before standing to his full height, where the water came to just his knees, revealing a long, rake thin body, nude and pale. He raked his fingers through his hair, wringing the water out. Fiery, red hair.

“Oh,” Aziraphale whimpered, “good _Lord_.”

Crowley’s eyes snapped up and focussed in on Aziraphale, his hands frozen in his hair. His eyes were still the colour of honey, but his pupils were round and human. And he had made an Effort.

He made no attempt to cover himself.

“Aziraphale.” He said, grinning wolfishly. “Wasn’t expecting you up yet. Here to join us?” It sounded so much like him, so much like _Crowley_ , that the image of him, beaten and bloody, bedridden for a _month_ , felt like it had never existed. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and carefully kept his gaze above Crowley’s waist.

“Sorry, I must have left my bathing suit at home. I suppose you did too.” He said pointedly. Crowley shrugged.

“S’the new style, angel. Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” He replied with a wink. 

Before Aziraphale could pass out from the sheer amount of blood that rushed to his head, he felt a soft hand on his shoulder. He jumped and turned to see Buttercup at his side, wrapped in a towel.

“Aziraphale! Good morning, I didn’t think I’d see you here! Did you sleep well?” Grateful for the opportunity to turn away from the lake, Aziraphale turned and smiled at her. Her blonde hair was darker now that it was damp, and it clung to her face. She smiled, and the hair glued to her face smiled with her.

“Oh, yes, my dear, thank you! I hate to think that I might have overslept, everyone else seems to be up and about.”

“No, none of that!” She teased, lightly punching his arm. “There’s no rules here, Aziraphale. Besides, you were awake awfully late last night! Johnny told me he saw you and AJ heading out to watch Joan last night.”

“Oh! Yes, goodness, she was…” Aziraphale realised he didn’t quite know how to give words to how her voice had made him feel. How it had felt to watch her perform with Crowly at his side. Crowley’s hand in his. He trailed off instead, shaking his head. Buttercup just smiled.

“I know exactly what you mean. I was a little far off so I couldn’t see her. But that voice…nothing quite like it, is there?” Aziraphale nodded, smiling softly. He liked not having to explain himself to Buttercup. He liked making her smile. “Anyways! I was going in for another dip, would you care to join us?”

Aziraphale flushed red, and turned back towards the lake. Crowley had swam further out, his nudity now concealed beneath the water, and he could see him splashing and playing with Buttercup’s children. He appeared to be playing a sea monster of some sort. He hesitated.

“I, uh, I’m afraid I haven’t anything to swim in, dear girl.”

“Oh, well that’s no issue, neither do I! No one here minds, honestly it’s kind of better that way.”

“Better?”

“Yeah! The water on your body, without anything on you, all natural. It feels right, you know? It feels kinda freeing.”

He shuddered a little, looking out again at the swimmers, the bathers, all unashamedly nude. All skinny and young. He wrapped his arms around his stomach.

“I don’t think… I don’t know, I’m...I don’t…” He groaned in frustration, trying to get his words out. “I don’t look like...them.”

He blushed, ducking his head as if he were admitting some shameful secret. Of course Buttercup knew this, he was being stupid. She had seen him dress in new clothes, had helped dry him off, had watched him eat her food.

_We all know you have a habit of indulging in earthly pleasures._

Buttercup didn’t laugh at him, like he worried she might. She didn’t even flinch. Merely looked him up and down and shrugged.

“No, you don’t. But is there something especially wrong with that?”

He was somewhat taken aback by that. He knew, rationally, that there was nothing _wrong_ with his body; for most of history, his curves and extra padding had been sought after and desired. His thighs and hips and stomach were often painted and replicated with padding and loose clothing. But times, as they are often known to do, change. Suddenly, his physique was considered unhealthy, undesirable. Unattractive. Heaven had never approved, purely on the basis that he wasn’t in ‘fighting shape’ (fighting shape for what, he often thought to ask?), and now it had shifted. He was unsightly, inappropriate. Unsuitable to represent heaven. And as much as he tried not to let it, it _hurt_.

“I don’t...I don’t really want to draw unnecessary attention. I wouldn’t be very good with people staring, and I wouldn’t want to spoil your morning here-” he began to ramble, flustered at the idea of other people watching, staring. He used to have awful anxiety dreams, on the odd occasions that he had slept throughout the years, of walking through Heaven, seeing people laugh and point or, worse, turn away disgusted, and then finding that he had no clothes on. People stared at him in Heaven anyways, it wasn’t a hard thing to imagine.

“Aziraphale,” she said softly, placing her hands on his biceps, “Honey, could you take a deep breath for me?” Suddenly aware that he hadn’t been breathing, he nodded, taking a deep breath in, unable to hold it for long before he exhaled with a gasp. Buttercup stayed with him, patient and unflustered, breathing deeply and consistently until Aziraphale did the same. He could imagine her doing this with her husband, if her unflappable nature said anything to her experience.

“Thank you Aziraphale, there we go. No one here’s going to make you get undressed, not if you’re not comfortable. No one’s here’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. But I have to tell you, that even if you _did_ , we wouldn’t care. This is a place where we _celebrate_ the human body in all it’s natural beauty, not shame it. There’s nothing about you or your body to be ashamed of.”

He took another deep breath, and looked into her wide, warm brown eyes. She didn’t seem to be mocking him.

“Thank you, my dear, but there are those who don’t share your very...kind sentiment.” He replied, clearly unconvinced.

_Heaven couldn’t be wrong. Heaven is kind, they’re Good, just in their own way._

For the first time in their conversation, Buttercup looked upset. Her eyes turned sad and sympathetic, and she gently squeezed Aziraphale arms.

“People have been unkind to you. Made you feel like you should have to hide parts of yourself away. I’m sorry.” Aziraphale choked on his words, taken aback by her sincerity. She moved her hands away from his arms, and brought them to the aquamarine that still hung from Aziraphale’s neck. She cupped the stone gently in her hands, and closed her eyes.

“Remember what I said yesterday, Aziraphale. Enjoy your time here, while it lasts. You can be yourself here, and damn what anyone else has to say about it, okay? People think we’re freaks just for being here, so we may as well be freaks, huh?”

_Freaks...yes, he had heard Gabriel use that word. It hadn’t sat well with him._

Without waiting for a reply, she stepped away, releasing the necklace, and turned towards the water, dropping her towel. Aziraphale didn’t look away, watching her jog back into the water, swimming over to join her kids. Calm, contented, unbothered. He looked around; none of the others in the lake were watching her. Her attention was held only by her children. He squinted; he couldn’t see Crowley with them, and his eyes scanned the water for a sign of his red hair.

“Not joining us, then?”

Aziraphale jumped, and turned. Crowley was standing a few metres behind him, his dripping hair tied away from his face, as he adjusted the belt around the trousers that were now, thankfully back on. His shirt remained off, and now, close up, Aziraphaelc could see the white, rough scarring around his ribs, near his collarbones. Evidence of an arduous recovery.

His sunglasses were firmly back on his face. He remembered the round, human irises he had seen earlier.

“No, I wasn’t planning to. How did you manage that, with your eyes? They looked…” Crowley grinned.

“Human, right? Demonic miracle, means I can go without the shades.”

“Well, goodness! Why don’t you do that all the time?”

Crowley flinched minutely, and turned his face away a little. He shrugged.

“Dunno. I like my eyes, not interested in changing them. Just not looking to get lynched while I go for a swim, s’all.”

Aziraphale felt his heart plummet to his stomach, and he rushed towards him, just stopping himself from reaching for him.

“No! No, I do too, goodness, I’m terribly sorry, my dear boy. I hadn’t meant it like that at all, I just...you’re right, I’m sorry. You don’t have to change them. I...I like your eyes.” He blushed at his confession, hoping he hadn’t gone too far. Crowley looked back at him, and smiled a little, lowering his shades just a little, so Aziraphale could see his serpent's eyes, golden and hypnotising.

“You do?” He asked, and Aziraphale could _swear_ he heard a trace of insecurity in his voice. Insecurity he was used to hearing in his _own_ voice. He hadn’t thought Crowley had anything to be insecure _about_.

“Well, _yes_. Of course I do. They’re yours.”

Now it was Crowley’s turn to blush, his facing matching his fair nicely. He pushed his shades back up, and reached back for his shirt, which was hung over the branch of a nearby tree. He shrugged it on, leaving it unbuttoned.

“Well, good. The miracle can be a bit of a pain in the arse anyways; feels like you’re wearing someone else’s socks. Shades are easier.”

“Of course, dear boy. And they make you look positively _wicked._ ” Crowley grinned, and led the both of them away from the lake, back up to the campsite.

“Well, I can hardly go around with boring old _human_ eyes can I? Bloody Serpent of Eden, aren’t I? The original tempter. Evil embodied.”

“Of course you are.”

“Terrifying. I haunt those kids' dreams at night, let me tell you. Very evil of me.”

“I have no doubt, my dear.”

* * *

Crowley led the two of them to a large marquee, where several people, wearing shirts with the now familiar symbol of the dove resting on a guitar emblazoned on them, scooping something from industrial stovetops into individual paper cones, and handing them to people waiting patiently in line.

“What’s this?” Aziraphale asked, unable to quite see over the small crowd that had formed.

“Breakfast.” Crowley explained. “I was gonna bring it back to the van for you, but you woke up earlier than I thought.” Aziraphale tried not to show just how much the idea of Crowley bringing him _breakfast in bed_ was affecting him, and instead nodded, turning away to try and catch a glimpse.

The two of them waited patiently in line, stopped a few times by young people that Aziraphale didn’t know who asked Crowley if they had any brown sugar. ‘Brown sugar’ that Aziraphale soon worked out was not to top their breakfast. Much like he had early that morning, Crowley descretely handed over small sandwich bags with smaller, brown tabs to three different people as they waited in line. Aziraphale didn’t miss his self satisfied grin, and he barely remembered to act as though he disapproved.

“Do you actually _have_ anything real?” He asked, when the third customer left happy. Crowley turned, and smiled.

“Why? Looking for a hit, angel?” He asked, in that tone of voice he only used for impressionable humans. Aziraphale sputtered and huffed in protest.

“Absolutely _not,_ well, I mean, I’m an _angel_ , Crowley, I can’t very well-”

“Yes, yes I know, not to worry. But to answer your question, yes I do. The brown stuff that the folks here are fond of can be a little unstable, doesn’t play well with everyone. I have some cleaner stuff back in the van, if you were interested.” He explained, calmly. Aziraphale could feel his hidden feathers ruffle.

“I don’t understand it. Why take it in the first place, if it’s so risky?”

“Why do people drink, when they know it’s so bad for their bodies? Because it feels _good,_ Aziraphale. People like to feel good. Doesn’t always mean that it’s wise, you won’t catch me poking myself with a needle anytime soon, but y’know. I’ll always try something once. Besides, this is way more your area, ey? Earthly pleasures and all that.”

_We all know you have a habit of indulging in earthly pleasures._

He squirmed, and didn’t reply. They got to the front of the line, and Crowley was handed two paper cones, and he passed one to Aziraphale, who took it numbly as the two stepped aside for the next folks in line.

“What’s this?” 

“Granola.” Crowley said, sounding out each syllable experimentally.

“Well, yes, but what _is_ it?” He said, looking into the cone. It had the consistency of sawdust.

“Like...oats? Nuts, seeds, coconut if they have it, maple syrup, fruit sometimes. S’not bad, Johnny and Buttercup make it sometimes. It’s meant to be good for you.” He said, rattling his around in it’s cone.

Aziraphale looked into his own, inhaling the nutty, sweet scent. It smelled _good,_ and it was still warm. But the words of the archangels stuck in his throat, and the sweet smell turned sickly. 

He was suddenly frustrated and angry. The drugs, the food, the clothes, how _easily_ he was swayed. It’s no _wonder_ he was laughed at when he strode into Heaven. He was pathetic, falling for temptations so easily. And this place, and these people, with their kind words and their soft voices, their intoxicating, beautiful music, it was making it so hard to just listen to his betters.

“Perhaps it’s best that I don’t, dear boy.” He said, shortly. Crowly was taken aback?

“What? I know it’s a little new, but you, turning down food? Something’s not right-”

“Yes, well there’s no need to rub it in, is there!” Aziraphale cried out indignantly. “I know perfectly well I have a habit of indulging myself, and I can hardly kurb it when you keep giving me things to indulge in. Earthly pleasures, my area _indeed._ ” He thrust the cone back to Crowley who stepped away, refusing to take it.

“Woah, angel. Where did that come from?”

Aziraphale growled in frustration, and considered throwing the food to the floor, but it was still food. Still something Aziraphale took great pleasure in, no matter how much Head Office disapproved. He could hardly throw food into the mud, not when all the granola in the marquee may not feed everyone there. But of course, he _had_ to have it, couldn’t resist, couldn’t resist, couldn’t resist…

He looked up, and his eyes met snake ones, concealed behind red glass.

... _Temptation_.

“Angel,” Crowley tried again, “what’s wrong?”

Aziraphale’s eyes shot down as he tried to get himself together, taking deep breaths, the paper cone crinkling as he clutched it tightly in his fist. He had no idea how to voice the thoughts swimming around his head, the anxiety that had burned in his gut since Gabriel and Sandalphon had paid him a visit.

“I know that... I know that I have a gluttony problem. I know I can be _greedy_ , and soft, but you shouldn’t _indulge_ me. Maybe I…I shouldn’t be here, there’s too much to indulge in. I mean, _look_ at me, they sent me to drive people away, turn them to the light, and I’m joining in, _useless_ -”

“Angel-”

“Stupid, _stupid-”_

“Aziraphale, will you shut up and look at me for a second?” Aziraphale looked up, and Crowley had taken off his sunglasses. No one seemed to be paying attention to them, and Aziraphale could feel the remnants of a demonic miracle in the air. Perception filter, probably. “Right, thanks. Now look, you said a lot of bullshit, and I’m just trying to work out where I should start.”

“Oh, _Crowley_ -”

“No, shush, it’s my turn now. Aziraphale, you bloody idiot, you’re... you... it’s okay to like things.”

“What?”

“Earthly pleasures. There’s nothing wrong with liking them, and you _do_ like them-” Aziraphale groaned indignantly, “you _do,_ and that’s okay! It’s not a...a ‘problem’. Yeah, you like food, and you like books. You like to eat, and you like to horde, like a bloody dragon. And you’re soft.” He took a deep breath. “I...overheard a little, over at the lake, only a bit. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. There’s nothing wrong with you, Aziraphale. There’s nothing wrong with being soft.”

Aziraphale tried to concentrate on breathing normally, his hand relenquishing it’s ironclad grip on the granola.

“I’m not meant to be soft. I’m meant to be a warrior.” He said, forlornly. Crowley huffed.

“Well, bollocks to what you’re _meant_ to be. If we were what we’re ‘meant to be’, we wouldn’t be friends. You think anyone here is who they were ‘meant to be’? They’re probably _meant_ to be in an office, or behind a till, or at home with the kids or whatever the fuck. Who cares what you’re meant to be? I like you just the way you are, and…” the demon’s cheeks flushed red, “I like your body just the way it is.”

Time froze around them. Not literally, Aziraphale had seen that happen before. The people around him still moved, birdsong still rang out around them Perhaps it had stopped for everyone else in the world, outside of the festival grounds. That all seemed so far away now.

“You...you like my body?”

“Of course I do. It’s yours.”

He adjusted his glasses again, and snapped his fingers, dropping the perception filter around them, and moving past him, picking a glazed walnut out of his own paper cone and tossing it into his mouth.

“Come on, angel. Your granola’s getting cold.”

* * *

With the novelty of a fully built stage, and the helpful experience of one day running a festival, the first act of the day was able to take to the stage at quarter past twelve in the afternoon. Crowley got them seated and settled in the centre, not too close to the stage, but close enough that they could see the faces of the performers. It was packed in shoulder to shoulder, and the ground was still muddy beneath them, but he found he didn’t mind as much as he had yesterday.

Quill were...energetic to say the least. Dressed in bright, colourful clothes with an infectious, happy energy. They struck Aziraphale as being a band that were used to playing far smaller audiences than the half-million people that were now sat in front of them. Their set lasted an uncharacteristically short 40 minutes, and they sang four songs. It gave Crowley enough time to roll a few joints, and as they came off their last number, he lit one, inhaled, and handed it to Aziraphale as the crowd died down, and the next band began to set up.

After Aziraphale’s outburst and Crowley’s casual but shattering statement, they had walked round the grounds together, Aziraphale reluctantly eating his granola (which really was _rather_ good), and Crowley eating it mostly so Aziraphale would. Crowley strategically took him away from the more crowded areas, walking him through the woods and through the fields, where wildflowers were growing and the birdsong was more audible over the people. 

Now, Aziraphale’s hands had stopped shaking, and he took the blunt with less guilt. _There’s nothing wrong with you_ , Crowley had said, and he kept it spinning in his mind as he took a long drag. Two people, in one day, telling him he had nothing to be ashamed of. It was a little much to bear.

“Thank you, Crowley.” He said, handing the joint back.

“Shh, don’t say that.” He grumbled, taking it. “What the heaven are you thanking me for, anyways?”

“For helping me to calm down, when I was being so silly.” Crowley waved him off.

“It wasn’t silly, not if it upset you. It happens. A walk always helps me.”

“Helps you when you’re…?” Crowley shrugged.

“Stuck in my head, like you were.” Realisation dawned on him suddenly, and he felt rather foolish for having asked. He took the blunt back, fiddling with it nervously.

“I spoke with Johnny a little this morning.” Crowley stayed perfectly still, then nodded.

“How much did he tell you?””

“Not everything, the bare bones. He said you’d tell me the rest, if you wanted to.”

“Right.”

“Are you going to? Tell me the rest, that is?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley took the blunt back and took a long, thick drag of it.

“M’gonna need a lot more of this first, angel.” He wheezed out. He turned and looked at him. “But yeah. I was planning to anyways. Eventually.”

“Oh? When’s ‘eventually’, a few centuries?”

Crowley laughed, but there was no humour to it. His eyes were dimmer behind his glasses, and Aziraphale cursed himself for ever bringing it up. But he had to _know_. Even if just to torture himself with it, for not being there. 

The two sat in comfortable silence, moving to a second joint when a young man took to the stage, introduced as ‘a very fond friend, Mr Joe McDonald.’

He wore his hair long, a bandana wrapped around his forehead, similar to Crowley, and dark shades. Also similar to Crowley. He was met with scattered applause and cheering as he adjusted his mic, fiddled with his guitar.

“Hello, people.” He greeted, his voice a little distant and quiet. He may well have not been altogether there. Aziraphale himself was drifting. “You look very beautiful. Are you having a good time?” The crowd responded appropriately. “Yeah, no? I didn’t know I was going to do this.” He gestured to his guitar.

_That makes two of us_ , Aziraphale thought.

He strummed his acoustic experimentally, and it reverberated cleanly through the speakers.

“We’re gonna play later on, with the Country Joe and the Fish band, but right now I’ll sing a few acoustic songs for you.”

And he began to sing. A little off pitch in places, and maybe a little flat, but his words ran beautifully though him, in an unusually soft and slow-paced opening number.

_Into my life on waves of electrical sound_

_And flashing light she came_

_Into my life with the twist of a dial_

_The wave of her hand_

_The warmth of her smile_

_And even though I know that_

_You and I_

_Could never find_

_The kind of love we wanted together_

_Alone_

_I find myself missing_

_You and I_

_You and I_

It was so _tender_ , and hit entirely too close to home. _The kind of love we wanted together_ , he thought to himself.

_Perhaps one day we could, I don’t know, have a picnic. Or dine at the ritz._

Tears came to his eyes unbidden.

_It's not very often that something_

_Special happens and you_

_Happen to be that something special for me_

_And walking on grass_

_Where we were and laughed in the moonlight._

_I find myself thinking of you and I_

A hand appeared on his shoulder and he flinched, turning to see Crowley. He had been trying to hand back the blunt as the song had gone on. Now he looked at him concerned.

“Angel? Are you alright, do you wanna get out of here?” Aziraphale shook his head fiercely, turning back to the stage.

“No, please, I want to stay. He’s...this song, it’s…” He swallowed, closing his eyes to will away the tears. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said softly, “Yeah, it is.”

They looked at eachother. Aziraphale gazed at Crowley’s hair, dried stiffly and tied back with the green bandana, so his snake tattoo was in full view, the tattoo he had seen the first time they had met. When he had smiled at him and told him that he couldn’t do a wrong thing. When he had stood under his wing as the rain began to fall.

And suddenly a truth he had known for years became a truth he understood. 

“I was afraid.” He blurted out.

“What?” Crowley asked, incredulously.

“When I said you were going to fast, I was afraid, so terribly afraid. When I gave you the thermos, when you asked to drop me home. I’m still scared.” Aziraphale’s voice was trembling, but the song gave him strength.

_And even though I know that_

_You and I_

_Could never find_

_The kind of love we wanted together_

_Alone_

_I find myself missing_

_You and I_

“Aziraphale…”

“I’m still afraid.”

“Yeah. I know, me too.”

“But, I...I would still like to. Even though I am afraid, I would like...”

With a final drag of the plectrum along the strings, his power song ended. 

The audience cheered.

Country Joe moved on, and a song he never even got the name of was gone forever. 

“Would like what?” Crowley asked, his face deathly serious. Aziraphale sighed. His brain was a little foggy, from the drugs, from the incessant noise of the crowd, from the new song on stage that clashed with the old one still playing in his head. His words, no matter how many he read, never formed when he needed them to. He shrugged, and smiled sadly.

“Nothing. Sorry, it’s gone now. I’ll tell you when I remember.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is Janis by Country Joe and the Fish, and I highly recommend giving it a listen!

**Author's Note:**

> Let us know what you think x stay safe!


End file.
